


More Witch Ford

by stuffbyshelbyfics



Series: Witchy Pines [4]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: M/M, god this posting system is weird as heck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-13
Updated: 2018-05-13
Packaged: 2019-05-06 09:11:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14638682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stuffbyshelbyfics/pseuds/stuffbyshelbyfics
Summary: Fiddleford has night terrors.





	More Witch Ford

Living in the semi-rural town of Gravity Falls required a whole set of instincts if one wanted to wake up the next morning the same shape they had been the night before. Most townsfolk learned them subconsciously - heading home before sundown, leaving the woods if unusual sounds were heard, and so on. They usually manifested themselves in old traditions continued for the sake of tradition without the knowledge of how they became traditions, thanks to the efforts of the Society of the Blind Eye. This was especially true for Fiddleford Hadron McGucket, for whom the dangers of Gravity Falls were especially unavoidable. Before he found the relative safety of the town dump, he often had to leave his nightly sleeping spot, harried by the nocturnal creatures of the town or, increasingly often, by the horrors of his own mind.

Taking that into account, thought Stanford Pines as he carefully held a limp and weeping Fiddleford, the events of the past few minutes made a lot more sense.

\------------------------------------------------------------

Fiddleford woke up in the dark hours after midnight and was instantly filled with utter terror. Every cell in his brain was screaming at him that danger was very very close, and that he had to run now. The malevolent presence was focused in a shadowy corner of the bedroom, and he kept his wide eyes fixed on it as he struggled to get out of his nest of thick blankets and grab Stanford, sound asleep next to him.

“Stanford. Stanford. Stanford.”

Stanford awoke with a snort, adjusting his slack jaw in order to make sounds capable of human comprehension. “Wuh? What is it?”

“There’s somethin’ here. There’s somethin’ here.”

Stanford snapped into action instantly, taking Fiddleford into his arms and slipping off the bed into the little nook provided by the ornate nightstand, the small man still wrapped in the eiderdown and silky sheets that they both shared. The half-naked Stanford reached behind him and slid open the nightstand drawer, pulling out a blaster that had survived the trials of Weirdmaggedon and turning on the lamp in the same fluid motion. Crouched and cautious, he explored the bedroom, which now seemed like a foreign and dangerous territory. Fiddleford, stiff with terror, watched from beside the bed, convinced that at any moment his partner would be pounced upon and torn limb from limb. At last Stanford straightened up, apparently satisfied with his search, and turned back to scoop up his lover and deposit him back onto the bed.

“There’s nothing here but you and me, old friend,” he said, his hands reassuringly heavy on Fiddleford’s waist.

This did not seem to have the desired effect on the distraught hillbilly. Fiddleford’s limbs refused to relax, and Stanford watched in distress as his eyes filled with tears.

“But - but I saw somethin’ there,” he whimpered, his lip trembling.

“I know, darling. It’s alright.” Stanford’s eyes were soft with concern and understanding. “It happens to me, too.”

He had sometimes had spells of night terrors and forgetfulness on the Stan o’ War II, where the familiar wooden boards and soft golden lights had become the harsh stone slabs of a distant, malevolent prison, or the mind-bending confines of Bill’s Quadrangle of Qonfusion. Stanley often had had to wrestle him back onto his cot after he’d tried to blindly jump off the boat, and other nights he’d awake crying and frightened, nerves taught with uncertainty, and Stan would hold on to him until he’d come back to himself again.

Fiddleford shook with embarrassment and remorse, tears dripping freely down his wrinkled face and dampening his beard. “I - I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he moaned, his head in his hands, “I’m sorry I’m still like this, I’m sorry we can’t just have a reg’lar relationship…”

Ford took his hands, gently but firmly. “Fiddleford, listen to me. I’m not upset with you at all, this isn’t your fault -”

“But it is!” Fiddleford wailed, his eyes wide, “This is my fault! The only reason this is happening is because I did this to myself!”

Ford paused, momentarily stunned. Dipper and Mabel had told him about the many years Fiddleford spent living in the town dump, living off scraps and trying to forget the experiment that had ended their relationship. He’d had an idea of the hardship his former lover had faced when he’d reunited with him in the Fearamid and seen his ragged clothes and shrunken physique, but he’d had no idea the trauma was this deeply embedded. As he gently cradled the small man, he leaned down and kissed his forehead, doing his best to soothe his frayed nerves.

To Ford’s alarm, Fiddleford’s breathing seemed to be edging into hyperventilation territory. He gently detached his lover’s face from his chest and made eye contact, using his fingers to steer Fiddleford’s bearded chin upwards. “Can you look at me for a moment, darling?”

Fiddleford complied shakily, wide blue eyes staring into Ford’s own. He tried to steady his breathing, matching Ford’s pace. All of a sudden, his pupils dilated and his eyelids drooped, submitting to the spell that Stanford had been preparing for the past few minutes.

“That’s it, my dear,” Ford murmured, lying Fiddleford back down onto the silky sheets, “You just relax.” His hands gave off a golden glow, mirrored in the shine of his eyes as he leaned down to kiss him again. Fiddleford drowsily wrapped his arms around Stanford’s shoulders, pulling him closer as their chins rasped across each other.

“Are you feeling better?” Ford asked, once their lips had parted. His lover nodded sleepily, shifting slightly and pulling the blankets across him.

“Do you want to go back to sleep?”

“Mmhm.”

“Okay.” Stanford reached across the bed and turned off the nightstand lamp, plunging their bedroom into darkness. No longer hostile and sinister, the atmosphere around the two content lovers was now warm and comfortable, once again the home they had worked to make for each other.


End file.
